Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Profile portrait of a woman on an upper arm

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a woman's head in side profile with a bob haircut, drawn in solid dark ink with smooth outlines and little shading. A flat green band sits behind the head and runs along the upper arm. The photograph is taken from the side against a plain red wall, with the subject's arm bent across the frame.

Upper arm Woman Face Profile Bob haircut Portrait

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Palais has given up on the slow numbers, so you stay by the pillar with your coat over one arm and watch the girl with the bob work her way across the boards. Her hair stops clean at the jaw, black as a gramophone record, and it swings when she turns, the way a door swings when nobody has bothered to shut it. Half of Sheffield is copying the green frock this spring. Only she wears it as though she was born in it, and you know she saved three weeks of wages to buy the cloth from the stall on Fargate.

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When the band strikes up something quicker, you cross the floor before you can talk yourself out of it. She looks at you sideways, the way she might look at a bus timetable she doesn't trust. "Ask me again in an hour," she says, "if you've still got the nerve and the shoes." You laugh too loudly, and your coat slides off the chair onto the sprung boards. She doesn't pick it up. She is already heading for the cloakroom, past the tall mirror, and the crowd closes behind her like water over a dropped stone.

An hour later the mirror ball is dying on its hook and the caretaker is stacking chairs. You find her on the steps outside, lighting a cigarette with a match she has to strike three times. The wind off the Don is cold enough to make your teeth ache. She offers you the packet though you don't smoke, and says the last tram went at eleven and she has a bus to catch. Then she walks up the hill, and the green of her dress is the last colour left in the street until the lamps take it too.

On Monday you find the spent match in your coat pocket, its head burnt black, and you still cannot decide whether it was a message or only a light.